Luck

Luck
by Marjorie Pickthall
1914
Chapter I
THERE were four bunks in the shanty, and three of them were filled.
Ohlsen lay in one, a great bulk under the Hudson Bay Company
blankets, breathing like a bull; in the next was Forbes, with eyes as
quick as a mink's, and now red rimmed from snow blindness, twinkling
from time to time over his yellowish furs. Nearest the door was
Lajeune, singing in his sleep. In one corner an old Indian cowered, as
little regarded as the rags and skins in which he was hidden; and
Desmond sat by the stove, drinking to his luck, fingering it and folding
it.
It was all there in a bag--raw gold, pure gold, the food of joy. At the
weight of it in his rough palm, Desmond chattered and chuckled with
delight. He had sat there talking and laughing for hours, while the glow
of the stove grew darker and the cold crept in. Little blots of snow from
the snow-shoes, first melting, had turned again to dark ice on the floor;
the red light clung to them until each little circle seemed to be one of
blood. Outside the world trembled under the shafts of the bitter stars;
but Desmond, with the very fuel of life in his hand, was warm.
Dreams ran in his brain like a tide and dripped off his tongue in words.
They were strangely innocent dreams of innocent things; sunlight on an
old wall, honey, a girl with sandy eyebrows, and yellow ducklings.
"And maybe there'll be a garden, with fruit you pick off the bushes.
'Twas under a thorn-bush she used to stand, with the wind snapping her
print gown. Or maybe I'll see more of the world first in an easy fashion,

never a drink scarce, and no man my better at it. I know how a
gentleman should behave. Are you hearing me, boys?"
Ohlsen breathed as slowly and deeply as a bull, Forbes blinked a
moment over the greasy furs and said, "I'm hearing you." Lajeune gave
a sudden little call in his sleep, like a bird.
"They're all asleep, like so many hogs," said Desmond, with a maudlin
wonder; "they don't care. Two years we've struggled and starved
together in this here freezing hell, and now my luck's come, and they
don't care. Well, well."
He stared resentfully at the bunks. He could see nothing of Ohlsen but
blanket, yet Ohlsen helped him to a new outfit when he lost everything
in a snow-slide. Forbes was only an unheeding head of grimy fur, yet
once he had pulled Desmond out of a log-jam. And Lajeune had nursed
him laughingly when he hurt his foot with a pick. Yet now Lajeune
cared nothing; he was asleep, his head flung back, showing his smooth,
lean throat and a scar that ran across it, white on brown. Desmond felt
hurt. He took another drink, strode over to the bunk, and shook him
petulantly.
"Don't ye hear when a friends talks t'ye?"
Lajeune did not move, yet he was instantly awake. His eyes, so black
that they showed no pupil, stared suddenly into Desmond's muddled
blue ones. His right hand gripped and grew rigid.
Desmond, leaning over him, was sobered by something in the
breathless strain of that stare. He laughed uneasily.
"It's only me, Jooney. Was you asleep? I'm sorry."
He backed off bewildered, but young Lajeune smiled and yawned,
showing his red tongue curled like a wolf's.
"Still the gold, my friend?" he asked, drowsily.

"I--I can't seem to get used to it, like," explained Desmond; "I have to
talk of it. I know I'm a fool, but a man's luck takes him all ways. You
go to sleep, young Jooney. I won't talk to you no more."
"Nor before your old savage in the corner, hein?"
Desmond glanced at the heap of rags in the corner.
"Him? What's the matter? Think he'll steal it? Why, there's four of us,
and even an Injun can have a corner of my shack for an hour or two
to-night. I reckon," finished Desmond, with a kind of gravity, "as my
luck is making me soft. It takes a man all ways."
Lajeune yawned, grinned, flung up his left arm, and was instantly
asleep again. He looked so young in his sleep that Desmond was
suddenly moved to draw the blanket over him. In the dim light he saw
Forbes worn and grizzled, the wariness gone out of him, a defeated old
man with horrible eyes. Ohlsen's hand lay over the edge of the bunk,
his huge fingers curved helplessly, like a child's. Desmond felt
inarticulately tender to the three who had toiled by his side and missed
their luck. He piled wood on the stove, saying, "I must do